


Starring Dean Winchester As The Other White Meat

by ignited



Series: Pig!Dean [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Transformation, Curses, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Pigs, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-25
Updated: 2007-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Funnily enough, there isn’t any pie or vengeful witches or waitresses or Sam eating veggies (and whole wheat, what the fuck?) or demonic pregnancies or bodily fluids involved in the unmaking of Dean Winchester.</i> It’s the usual brand of weirdness when the boys are on a hunt, only this time Dean winds up as the other white meat – that is to say, a pig. Sam, unspoken fondness for Dean’s animal self, thinks karma’s got an awesome sense of humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stirring Up The Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> Because fandom clichés and crack fueled this idea and if you’re gonna mess with Dean and throw transformations into the mix, you gotta go all the way. Massive thanks to **regala_electra** for the beta, handholding, and enabling.

"You know what the most fucked up part about this is?" Sam starts, voice rough, a low whisper, fingers clench and his whole body's tense, too, ready to go off, split second and he'll just—but he continues, leans against the doorframe, and says, "It's the fact that I can't get you out of my head even when you look like _that_."

Actually, the most fucked up thing might be that Sam, being the Ginormitron that he is, gets his calves fucking _head butted_ right after, but we're not up to that part yet.

*

Funnily enough, there isn't any pie or vengeful witches or waitresses or Sam eating veggies (and whole wheat, what the fuck?) or demonic pregnancies or bodily fluids involved in the unmaking of Dean Winchester.

It'd be too easy if there _was_.

*

It's a Thursday when it begins. Sam slides into the booth, Dean leaning against the cool surface of the window, a pair of sunglasses on his face and his hair's mussed and flat. His mouth's half-open and he _isn't_ drooling, nope. He jerks and sits up straight with a snort when Sam hits his shoulder lightly, slouching back across from him again, Sam slumps low like that makes him less noticeable.

"You look like shit, Dean," Sam says helpfully, his large hands tentatively encircling a big mug of coffee, 'cause Sammy's got sensitive fingers, the giant baby. Dean sneers back because dude, he's looked a hell of a lot worse for wear. Right now he's the best looking _thing_ in the diner. And then he shifts his weight, sitting forward. Over the edge of his sunglasses he can see the mug of coffee Sam's drinking, and his, too far to reach, black, no sugar. He wiggles two fingers, gestures towards himself and Sam pushes the cup over, rolling his eyes.

"Comes with the territory, Sam," he says, sips the coffee. It's too hot, Dean can feel it burning off a layer of his tongue (and he needs that tongue, the general population needs Dean's tongue, Sam included in the census), and too goddamn early for Sam to give him the third degree, which doesn't make any sense as he was there, too, "Don't get pissy 'cause you went to bed early, _grandma_. You missed out, man."

"I'm sorry that my idea of a good time doesn't include doing shots off of…" Sam trails off, frowning. "This is like déjà vu."

"Yeah, it is," Dean says, shuddering at the second sip of the liquid fire-brand coffee. Desperate times call for desperate measures and Dean sullies his black gold (okay, crap) with crumbly sugar from the chipped sugar container. "Same old story about how my brother's a pussy."

Sam's throwing him a dark glare when he leans back, rubbing his hands down his thighs. Ignores Dean, Sam says, "Where's the waitress? I'm starving."

She comes a few moments later and it's the same routine, with bonus leering over sunglasses this morning—Sam wants eggs and waffles, Dean wants eggs and waffles and pancakes and some sausages and maybe home fries. Huh, that's kind of, uh, weird, Dean hadn't felt that hungry before ordering, more hungover than anything else.

Ten minutes later—the joint's practically empty, speedy service—they get their food.

"You gonna keep your glasses on?" Sam asks, swiping the syrup as Dean frowns, too slow to get it. He starts to eat his eggs though, cutting them up, then globbing forkfuls of the oil-drenched home fries in the runny yolk while Sam's pouring syrup on his stack of pancakes from up high, like he's done since he was five years old.

"Like 'em?" Dean asks, mouth full, looking over the rims. He'd picked them up at a going out of business sale at some nickel and dime department store down the street—normally couldn't care for cheap ones, always irritated the bridge of his nose and stupidly he'd told Sam about it once and Sam ragged how it's 'cause he's so _sensitive_ , the dicksmack—but these are _Ray-Bans_ , like Cruise in _Risky Business_. Okay, so Tom Cruise's _totally_ a pussy but he got to fuck Rebecca DeMornay on a train. Dean's gotta give him credit for that.

Sam shrugs. "They're fine if it's 1983 and I haven't been _born_ yet."

"Lame, Sammy, lame," Dean says, somewhat, 'cause the food's fucking delicious and he's swirling the sausage, speared on a fork, in the pancake syrup on his plate in between large bites. The food's a welcomed thing, slight hangover or not; there isn't enough leftover liquor in his system to turn down an offering like this, and he swallows down bites here and there with large gulps.

Sam stares at him with this indecipherable look as Dean looks up through his sunglasses, grins.

He points at Sam's half-eaten waffles. "You gonna eat that?"

*

The first sign is when Sam tries to spoon his brother.

This isn't so much out of the ordinary—got less ordinary 'round about five months ago, thanks to a used up med-kit, one bottle of whiskey, blood, everywhere, and one wasted motel room—as it is friggin' weird, because uh, Dean's not really into this position. Of course, he is, sometimes, but you know. _Age rules_ , he's laid out plainly, huffy look or not, and he's not taking it up the ass tonight.

He groans and curls his lip, squirming. Sam breathes against the back and top of Dean's head, wrapping an arm around his side and belly. He smacks his lips, all loud and sweat slicked skin rubs against Dean, the sheets clammy, Sam's dick pressing up against Dean's ass.

"Dean," Sam starts, murmurs against the shell of his ear and it's really fucking annoying when your brother tries to pull this cuddly shit just to fuck, 'cause hey genius, already cockfirst into incest, Dean doesn't need to be romanced into fucking—and then all of a sudden, Sam says, "Are you gaining weight?"

Dean exhales, like he's been holding his breath, only he hasn't—it's a gasped sputter, his brow knit and nuzzling his face into the pillow. "You're not getting my ass, dipshit."

"I think you _are_ ," Sam says accusingly, his voice rising a little like he's still too tired to crow about it. But he moves his hand to rest on Dean's belly, ignoring when Dean tries to whap it away with a sleepy hand. "I can feel it."

"Yeah, and get used to feeling up your _dick_ all you want 'cause I'm not letting you near mine if you keep talking like that," Dean whispers harshly, rolls his shoulder muscle and tries to push Sam away. "Maybe I am," he says gruffly, _you've got a problem with that?_ as an undercurrent.

Sam waits. Dean wishes he was the one spooning Sam as it'd be easier to smother him in his sleep. Or you know, that they weren't spooning, like, there's a reason he's still ponying up for two beds even if Sam won't take the fucking hint.

Dean doesn't want to get into this now, so he murmurs something about stress, burying his face in the pillow. "Now quit hasslin' me or your dick's never coming near my ass again."

*

The second sign's a week after that, when Dean puts on a good thirty, forty pounds.

And puts on means like, _overnight_ , all of a sudden he's sliding into a chair next to Sam at the library, wearing one of Sam's hoodies, all scruffy, his skin pale and sweaty. Even if he looks sick, it's a great improvement over the past two days, which ran the gamut of all the five, ten, whatever steps for whatever problems. Denial, hiding, anger, and that's not mentioning the yelling. He's tried his hand at hiding it, lasts all of a few hours, Sam holds his hands palms out, tells him to calm down, that he's overreacting (brief memory of flying, Dean freaking out and demonic possession), to which Dean starts groping himself, pinching any extra flesh, moaning, and generally acting like a five year old.

For three minutes. Then he wants sex.

Let it be known that Sam doesn't give a rat's ass if Dean puts some weight on or not —it's the least of their problems in a life where their day (and night) jobs consist of life or death situations and saving people from things they shouldn't have to know about, that Sam and Dean _do_. As long as they're alive and well, and he's _there_ , it's fine—something like this? Not important in the big scheme of things. Sam tells him just as much, though admittedly, he knows something _bad_ is going on. Bad enough that they're checking out this shitty library for clues in addition to the current case.

Without having sex. Again, not a question of appearance—Dean looks kind of the same, his face fuller, the extra weight distributed evenly but mostly concentrated in his belly—it's that it's hard to have sex when your partner looks like he might _pass out_ from fever, his eyes half open.

"Dean—"

"It's probably got something to do with that spirit we're chasing," he says almost dismissively, looks like he'd rather be having a cup of coffee then up in a near empty library at ten in the morning. Weird, too, as he's scruffy when Sam swears he saw Dean shaving earlier.

Meanwhile, Sam's removing a book from the stack near his arm, notebook and printouts with old, fuzzy pictures, photocopies of carvings laid out in front of him. "Or it could be an incubus."

"Sam—"

"Like," and he taps a pen repeatedly, already knowing Dean's reaction to this theory, "laid its eggs and—"

"Sam, I am not fucking _pregnant_. You keep on that line of thinking and I'll kick you right in the crotch. Besides," Dean says flippantly, waving a hand (pale and pink, freckles blurring out and that's _weird_ ), "it's magic. It'll go away like that."

So they're at stage number whatever: temporary acceptance until Dean can burn something. Great.

"It could be a displacement spell."

Dean frowns, squirming in his seat, all restless. Huffs out, cheeks puffing out, reminding Sam of _something_ , "What, like car keys?"

"No, you idiot. Like mass instead of spiritual energy. Remember that body jumper in New York? Displaced souls," he says, shrugs and pushes a few strands of hair out of his eyes. He holds his hands out in front, like weighing something, one heavier than the other. "Displaced mass. Similar principles."

"How can I forget that? You're lucky I didn't cut your hair."

He's a liar, Dean, who got enjoyment beyond _belief_ being in Sam's body, even if he'll never admit it. Seemed to _own_ it, at least he'd say so, and that's another adventure Sam would like to put behind him for the moment. Instead, he just pinches the bridge of his nose, doesn't care if frustration starts to creep into his voice. "All talk and no action."

"My dick certainly got a _lot_ of action," Dean says, looks down pointedly at his crotch. "It'd like to thank you for doing a good job taking over the controls. Little less pressure next time."

"Right, I forget how _sensitive_ you can be. Anyway, _Dean_ , this is… weird. It's definitely magic, but what, I don't know—" Sam really needs to assign levels of weird, like threat levels or something, a 1 to 10 basis. Right now, they're at a troubling 7 with a likely forecast of getting knocked up to 8. Load up on rock salt and batten down the hatches.

"It ain't eggs, Sam."

"Uh huh," Sam says, reaching over to stick his fingers under the hem of Dean's shirt. Fingertips skim over the soft flesh of his belly, far less definition and no sign of anything _inside_ like… Sam doesn't want to use the 'p' word either, and so far, Dean's right. No pregnancy, nothing moving, not that he can tell anyway. Now if it's _demonic_ , then, that's a whole other story.

"I've seen enough horror movies that I'll take a beer gut over a demonic baby, hands down, any friggin' day of the week," says Dean, yawning and leaning back in his chair, shirt slightly riding up over the paunch of his belly. He sits up straight and runs his fingers through his hair, ruffles it a little before licking his lips. "You find anything on that spirit? 'Cause that thing's still out there and we're dealing with it first."

"Looks like the murders started a few decades ago, now they're happening again. There's a local grocery store where we might get some answers—owners there are the oldest residents in these parts."

The thing they're hunting now is a spirit they think has some connection to the local farms around this small town—maybe a ghost of a dead farmer, or a protector spirit like that scarecrow a year ago. There's been a few deaths, bodies found laid out in fields of grain, corn—Dean cracked a few jokes about crop circles—all with several vital organs removed. Local townspeople freaking out about a psychopath, like a crazy hitcher, though all signs point to spirit type due to the arrangement of organs and symbols burned into the ground surrounding the bodies. Sam's got a line on the last known location where people might've prayed to the spirit, maybe set up some kind of shrine that hasn't gone by the wayside, leaving this spirit to reappear and wreak havoc all over again years later.

It's serious because the body count is rising, and rising or not, Dean will always put saving people's lives first, especially his brother.

So Sam has to think of _that_ , hard, when Dean starts his usual horndogging, eyeing the library assistant's skirt (or lack thereof). Oh, sure, that's _normal_ , and so's the displeased noise Dean makes when Sam cuffs him on the back of the head, pulling him up by the scruff of his scruffy neck, and out to leave the library.

*

Sam's asking questions outside one of those mom and pop grocery stores, the kind with a porch and old tin signs that trendy hipsters buy and hang up like rustic Americana's the kind of thing that glitzes up your den, but the actual _place_ these signs originate, well, they ain't gonna go there for a visit. Dean sits in the Impala and taps out a rhythm to a James Gang song blaring from the speakers. His eyes stray from Sam's back to the direction across the street, out of the corner of his eye. Like he can't help but _look_ , restless, twitch of yearning and feeling horny as all hell.

"Looks like an old barn. A group of people used to meet there in the nineteen forties. Got the address," Sam pipes up, suddenly leaning an arm against the edge of the driver's seat window, peering down at Dean inside. By now Dean's slurping a cherry slushie, hmm-ing in response and looking away from Sam, mouth pursed around the straw.

"I think one day we oughta try one of those mud spas," Dean states. Sam's vision slides over his brother and in the same direction he's looking, an abandoned yard filled with junk, a pool of mud filled with flies square in the middle.

Sam stares at him again, his mouth going open and closed like a fish, brow getting all wrinkled too. " _What?_ "

"You know. You just, like, _soak_ , and man, think of it, Sammy. Throw in a couple of chicks in bikinis and get 'em all messy. Mud wrestling. I'll have me some of that."

"…I don't know you, sometimes."

"Shut up, you kinky freak, I know you're diggin' it." Dean bites his lip. The mud looks really cool. And enticing, girls or not. He starts to get up but Sam's at the door and in the way.

Sam rolls his eyes and taps the edge of the open car door. "Move over. I'm driving."

"The fuck?"

"You're in no condition to drive," Sam explains, and before Dean can say anything, he points a long finger in Dean's face. "You're being weirder than usual. Mud? This curse, or whatever it is, it's affecting you."

He opens the car door and grabs the slushie, tossing it in a nearby wastebasket to Dean's dismay. Sam starts to shove Dean over. Thing is, Dean kind of complies—not like he has any choice, what with Sam being a pushy little bitch—and starts to shift his weight awkwardly into the passenger seat. Curses are a pain in the ass when they're trying to hit you up with a case of whatever the fuck's popular in hell this week. The extra weight's not agreeing with him.

His jeans are painfully tight, not in the good hard-on kind of way any longer. Like the 'trying to breathe' way. One wrong stretch and they might go and rip. A damn shame, because he likes these jeans. Maybe he should've taken up Sam's offer to borrow his sweats. Even if they were all old and two sizes too big—and that's Sam for you, always covering up and wearing layers, sometimes baggy, to hide himself, his _assets_. The sweats are college era, and totally geeky. They'd _fit_ , at least. Not like his t-shirt's doing him any good either, tight and straining against his belly, his black canvas jacket mercifully covering him.

"Dude, what're you—Come on," Dean grouses, hunches a little and angles away when Sam accidentally elbows him in the arm. He sucks in a breath and unzips his jeans, turns around with an innocent look, hoping Sam didn't see him. "I can still _drive_."

"Dean, I'll buy you the biggest steak on the menu at the next diner we come across if you let me drive," Sam answers, starts the ignition.

He looks over at Dean, who's mouth is set in a little 'o,' takes a second or two before he nods and asks, "The biggest?"

Sam nods. "Nothing but."

"Okay," he says, relents, his stomach growling in agreement.

It's a few minutes after that, when they're at a stoplight, that Dean moans and leans back in his seat, wiping a hand over his face. Yeah, something's up. Food over taking control of the Impala. The car should be first pick as long as the sky's blue and the world keeps spinning. Meaning, forever, and whatever way he organizes his morals or system of code, the car usually takes precedence nine and a half times out of ten over food. "…You sneaky bastard."

"That's me," Sam replies, tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

"We're getting that steak and we're getting that damn spirit. _Then_ you're gonna figure out what's wrong with me after we fuck."

"Dean," Sam starts to say, tone of warning before Dean cuts him off. "Last time I checked, I'm still a handsome devil and I want sex. You got a problem with that?"

Sam shakes his head. "Of course not," the way he says it, it's all solemn and sincere, puppy dog eyes, just on the verge of a conversation involving feelings and that three letter phrase he's not in the mood to deal with right now. Sam though, follows this with a smile, the kind that's spreads all slow, his eyes half-lidded, voice rough. Eyes looking Dean down, then slowly, slower, up. "You're gorgeous."

"Damn straight."

"And _pretty_."

"Sam—"

"We can buy you some makeup, rouge and lipstick and an eyelash curler, not like you need it—"

"Asshole."

*

Sam thinks this would be hilarious any other time besides than _this week_.

The confrontation's short, shorter than the trip to the old barn at the address Sam received—abandoned, moldy, cobwebs covering the shrine right in the center of a big loft filled to the brim with junk. Old furniture, cardboard boxes, garage sale type stuff. Point is, once they find the shrine they commence with burning it—Dean does, lights up a whole _book_ of matches, smirks even. And like clockwork, the spirit appears, a mix between a scarecrow, a farmer, and something sinister, patchwork eyes and a ragged maw filled with pitchfork teeth. Just the same, Sam and Dean are prepared, Dean using rock salt rounds while Sam recites a few incantations in Latin.

The thing's _dead_ then, bright flash of light, tang of ozone and ash dusts the wooden floorboards. Dean's eyes are screwed shut, mouth pursing like he's swallowed something sour.

"Did it work?"

Sam comes over to him, takes stock of the hoodie and the sweats Dean begrudgingly accepted, does a little three-sixty around him before he stops near in front, grabbing Dean's side, pushing away his open jacket. "Nope, you still have lovehandles."

"I'm gonna cut off all your hair when you're _sleeping_ ," Dean tells him, bats away a hand ineffectually. "Bitch."

When they get back to the motel, it's just the same way they—more like _Dean_ —left it: a hurricane zone. All his stuff's strewn around his queen-sized bed, and he plops down on it, scratches at his stubble with a loud yawn.

"Didn't you just shave this morning?"

"Yeah."

"It grew back."

"That's what a man's face tends to do, Sammy. I'm sorry your body's concentrating all growing power to your legs rather than your scrawny ass beard," Dean says, tinge of amazing slow burn touching his face when he looks up, almost makes it easy to ignore the sweat and scruff.

" _No_ , it's like… A _lot_ , Dean. Go look."

And he's right, because it looks like he hasn't shaved in a week.

"Shit."

*

Dean's thinking Sam may be onto something when he sighs and sits down in the bedside chair gingerly, tired and sore in all the _wrong_ places. Apparently it takes his body to go out of whack for Sam to decide they should be researching rather than occupying themselves with sex the night before, but Dean doesn't give two shits about Sam's need to freaking _ruin the moment_ when they get back and Sam's on a few hours of sleep, 'thinking of Dean' rather than himself (or, you know, Dean's _needs_ , which consist entirely of sex. And maybe food. Shit, maybe he's right; he's admittedly hornier than usual. Uh.)

Or it could be that he's pregnant.

Please, _god_ , no, comes the thought, pulling his too-tight shirt on over his head. It's mid-afternoon and they've—okay, so _he's_ slept just 'til noon. Now Sam's in the bathroom taking forever, probably fixing his long tresses or whatever you call it—Dean had him go out to grab lunch, and Sam's finally stopped his moaning from the bathroom about "lugging all that crap" back to the motel.

Maybe yeah, Dean is feeling sore, he's feeling sweaty, tired, and just shitty, but there's a positive point—mixed in, somehow—in that he got some sex out of Sam, albeit shorter than usual— _taking out a spirit, few hours of sleep, not the way you look dumbass_ , he'd said—but it's _something_ to tide him over. (Something good. Real good. Felt freaking _awesome_ until Sam said three times was enough and started snoring because he's an asshole.)

"Maybe it was something you ate," Sam says when he comes out, Dean glaring at the smooth and perfect—Jesus, stop _thinkin'_ man—state of his brother, all taut muscle, smooth, flat belly, and Dean's jeans are gonna give _today_ , count on it.

"Maybe I'm gonna punch you in the face if you don't stop giving me shit about my eating habits," Dean cautions him, puts a hand on his thigh and looks up at Sam. "You eat as much as I do. _More_."

Sam shrugs. "Yeah, but it's not like I make a big deal out of it."

It's true—Sam's like six-four, six-five, six thousand feet tall or so, gotta pack away a lot of food understandably, only he doesn't get as much of a kick out of it as Dean does. They're Winchester men, manly, give 'em all the meat and hearty food they can handle—even _Sam_ here, looks a hell of a lot better a year out of college than he did when Dean swung by, got some meat on his bones and doesn't look so scrawny anymore.

He starts pulling a shirt on, already in jeans and boots, saying, "Or it could be one of your one night stands."

Dean rubs the back of his neck, winces. "Unlike you, I make sure to leave the ladies satisfied. It's called multiple orgasms, Sammy. Look it up."

Ignoring Dean, he continues, "Could be a time released curse."

Dean rolls his eyes, wiping his face. "This is fucking stupid."

"Well, we've got to explore all avenues. Otherwise…" Sam sits down on the edge of his bed, hunches forward, elbows on knees. "I think… your body's changing. Slowly. Into _what_ , I don't know."

" _Into?_ Whoa, wait a minute. Like… _into_ , we talkin' something freaky? Like _The Fly_? Goldblum, not Price, though either one – no. No fucking way."

"No. More like, um, I don't know. Maybe some kind of animal."

"What?"

"The mud thing, earlier. Your beard. Dean, you were checking out the freaking _dumpster_ when we left that diner yesterday."

Dean frowns, and he makes a face, his eyes widening in annoyance. "I was hungry!"

"For _dumpster food_?"

"It's all goin' to the same place, Sam," Dean points out and if his body chooses this moment to burp, well, he isn't gonna contain it. He scratches his beard, tries not to let his confusion show at the fact that it feels, probably looks like, he hasn't shaved in days and days—and he did, hours ago. Thing keeps growing back, _fast_. "This is too friggin' weird."

Sam's standing up and hesitating, like he's about to sit next to Dean, have a freaking heart to heart—which Dean will not be able to take and _will_ punch him in the face if he tries to pull some shit like that—

"You give me a pat on the head and a hug and I'll kick your ass," Dean says, holds up a finger in warning.

His brother waves his hands, all impatient and not caring he looks stupid. Must be serious. "What do you want me to do, Dean? This isn't something we've dealt with before. This is strong magic. Your body's changing and we don't know when it's going to stop. You've been looking like you've had a fever for the past few days. You're turning _pink_."

He's got a point; the room's like a furnace and Dean's sweating. He hunches forward, then back, rocks and taps his foot. Sam comes over, grabbing Dean's shoulder to which Dean's thankful for, because another minute and he might fall over or something.

"Dean!"

"It's okay. I just feel hot, you know? Besides the normal kinda hot," he offers weakly, grits his teeth and frowns. "Is the A/C on?"

Sam nods in its direction. "Uh, yeah."

Dean squirms a little. "I don't know. I feel really tired."

"How about I pick up something at the pharmacy?"

Dean makes a face and decides it's a good time to get up. Sam holds his shoulders, yanks his hands back when Dean shrugs him off, nudging Sam away. "Don't treat me like a little kid, okay?"

"You can barely stand, dumbass. Stop acting like a baby."

"Who's the little brother again?"

"Me. That doesn't give you carte blanche to be an asshole," Sam snaps, eyebrows going up before his brow knits with frustration. "Now you're gonna be my fucked up transformed brother if you don't let me take care of you, all right?"

Dean stares at Sam for a moment, then raises his eyebrows, throws Sam an appreciative look, albeit begrudgingly. "Fine."

He bounces on the balls of his feet, restless and hyper all of a sudden, face near ridiculous and itching. Not like he'll go and shave 'til he's baby smooth, like Sam (of course) but you know, it's not like he's away on the road for ages that he won't shave enough—here it's full-on scruffy, like Dad. "I'm gonna go shave."

"That's it," Sam says, moves to pick up his jacket. "When you're done, you think you can try cleaning up your stuff?"

"What's wrong with my stuff?"

"It's a sty, man."

Dean shrugs. "It's fine."

"No, it isn't," Sam says, nods his chin in the direction of the empty food containers and wrappers scattered on the bedside table, Dean's bed, floor, and there's the duffel too, overflowing. "You want to be charged extra for cleaning?"

"But it's nice and homey." Dean's eyes widen. "While you're at it, go pick up a tranquilizer dart. What the hell." He sighs heavily. "I hate magic. Better to sleep through this bullshit."

*

This motel's lodged in the nineteen sixties, as they tend to be when they smell like something's died and rubbed its scent all over the carpeting during its death throes – old or new furniture, doesn't matter; evil's lodged in this place. Maybe not their kind of evil, but who the hell puts up a velvet painting of a _clown_ in a motel room?

Sam's gaze casts downwards when he drops his keys and a plastic bag of pharmacy items—and no, no _food_ , painkillers will help, he'll tell him—on the side table, right on top of the usual paraphernalia—maps, printouts, laptop, and—and a bra, obviously.

Black lace. Sam reasons if he ever wore a bra, it'd be the kind that could cover _breasts_ , not this flimsy thing. So. Dean's carrying souvenirs in the form of undergarments, how nice and totally _not_ creepy whatsoever.

"That better be you, Sam," Dean says, and his voice sounds like it's coming from the other room, the bathroom, "Get in here so I can kill you."

Statements like these are a dime a dozen, so common that Sam wouldn't flinch; only these past few days, things are a little—screw that, a _lot_ —weirder than normal, and there's a constant thumping against the bathroom door.

"Dude, it's not my problem if you're using up all the toilet paper," Sam says, flips open his laptop on the table with a hand as he pulls off his jacket. "I'm not your maid."

A few moments after the words come out of his mouth, Sam reasons something's wrong because prime insult material and Dean keeps thumping the door instead.

"Open the door, man," Dean says, and two things pop into Sam's head, frantic and alarmed: the strain of worry in Dean's voice, uncharacteristic of him, and the fact that Dean's voice didn't actually make a sound—it's a strong tone, voice ringing clear through Sam's brain, but not carried by air. An echo bouncing off the walls in his head and Dean isn't physically present to deliver it. Like brain waves, or maybe telepathy.

Last time he's checked, his psychic 'powers' don't include telepathy.

Dean's still talking, a bodiless narration, continues with, 'You laugh and I'll cut your dick off.'

Bodily harm, now that's harsh, and freaking worth it when Sam opens the door and sees nothing, an empty bathroom done in plain white walls and tile. Nothing for a good few feet anyway, until he looks all the way down, and there, hunched under the rusty plumbing of the sink, beside a pile of a tattered shirt, boxers, and sweats, is a pig. The pig's coat's the same color as Dean's hair, sandy brown, but with a reddish tinge. On all fours, before a few seconds pass and it's seated, back legs splayed out, front legs on the tile in front of its belly, Dean's amulet hanging around the pig's neck.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ignited/pic/00044czy/g15)Sam just stares, his face unable to register any emotion for a good three seconds before a facial spasm takes over and he bursts out laughing.

'Shut the fuck up,' Dean growls, stamps the floor with a foot ( _hoof_ ) as he struggles, skitters to his feet, walking past Sam into the main room. 'And get your ass on that laptop and start figuring out what's wrong with me.'

"Oh, _now_ you're willing to listen to reason," Sam says, and he swears even if Dean wasn't like, two, two and a half feet high or whatever, he's avoiding Sam's gaze, all nonchalant as only _he_ can be. "This isn't good, Dean. The spell's in full effect."

'No shit,' he says, nudging a chair towards his bed with his head and snout, snuffling noises like it's taxing his piggish body. He starts to pull at the sheets and tries balancing against the bedside and chair before he falls to all fours heavily, snorting and groaning. 'Motherfucker.'

Apparently being a pig means Dean's running on all cylinders cursing-wise. He tries to climb up the chair but it's awkward and not going to happen at all, his stout body straining under Sam's gaze.

"Do you need me to…?"

'No,' Dean grits out, his voice sounding tired and rough. It's the embodiment of the relief Sam feels at being able to hear Dean's voice regardless of form—makes it easier to communicate but at the same time, he's missing a familiar sense of actions reading different from words, because if anyone's the King of not communicating, it's Dean.

Sam moves over and bends down, picking Dean up. It's hard to do so because for one, Dean starts flailing his legs and kicking every which way, and two, he's kind of big and _really_ heavy. Sam's back is killing him.

Far as Sam can tell, it looks like it's a species of pig he hasn't really seen up close before—hell, it might not even _exist_ , it's magic after all. At least, it's not like a farm pig, Dean's not _that_ big, and not fully mature anyway—because that'd be near impossible to pick up, upper body strength be damned. But he's still pretty heavy (heck, _maybe_ even as heavy as he was _before_ all of this—before the magic kicked in, normal weight—but Sam sure as hell isn't gonna say that).

'Dude, get off of me!' Dean cries out, body squealing, jerking and digging his hooves into Sam's arms and chest if he can reach it. Even his voice is wheezing, like he's been up for days on end.

"Shut up," Sam commands, half-placing, half-dropping Dean on top of the bed with a loud thump. Dean takes a few steps forward tentatively; leaves hoof shaped marks all over the surface of the bedspread. "You're welcome."

'I hate this,' Dean says, ignoring Sam's comment, lies down on his belly and watches Sam sit easily on the other end of the bed, typing away at his laptop, making notes in a notebook lying near his thigh. 'You left and then I felt like I was gonna pass out on the toilet and then _this_ happened. Damn near strangled myself with my shirt.'

Sam quirks his eyebrows and opens his mouth to speak, but Dean's voice rambles on as he noses the bed sheets, sniffing them. 'The _toilet_. Like Elvis. I don't wanna croak on the toilet, Sammy. And I was in there for like, a half-hour, because you wouldn't get your ass here and I couldn't reach the doorknob and get out so I had to keep banging on the door and my whole _face_ hurts.'

He snorts again and rubs his snout against the sheets; Sam doesn't even want to bring up the fact that Dean was probably jerking off in those same sheets earlier because, well, he's a pig, it's not like he'd _mind_. So it makes sense. Logic, there.

"At least I can understand you," Sam tries, can't help it if sounds eager because he's sure as hell happy that he _can_ understand him, that there isn't just this pig snorting around Dean's dirty sheets and knowing that animal's his older brother. He really doesn't need to have Dean doing whatever the hell he wants and using the fact that he's a pig and can't talk as an excuse. Looks like it _is_ telepathy, though why Dean's able to do it and why Sam can pick up on it and—wait, Dean's turned into a _pig_ , screw logic right now. "That's something."

'Whatever,' Dean says, stretches out his legs and huffs impatiently. He makes noises the whole time, little rumbling snorts deep in his throat, whuffs and growls, legs kicking against the bed sheets. He sits on the bed, staring at Sam, legs splay out. 'I'm tired and hungry. Get me some food.'

"You had lunch earlier," Sam points out, eyebrows up. "You don't need any more food."

'I'm gonna eat your damn notebook if you don't get me some food.'

"You wouldn't—" Sam grips the edge of the laptop screen as Dean cocks his head, and Sam swears it looks like Dean's raising an eyebrow at him, if he had any eyebrows.

'Go ahead, poindexter. Give me two minutes and I'll eat your emo poetry like _that_.'

"I don't write poetry, Dean!"

At this point, it's like being an outside viewer to the strange, disjointed thing that is Sam's life, where he's having a one-sided conversation with his brother, the pig, Dean's bodiless voice as the narrator. He'll laugh later when he's not teetering on the edge of amusement and that familiar mantra of _this cannot get any more fucked up_.

'Coulda fooled me, throwin' those purple prose words around,' Dean says, and he yawns, licks his mouth, not as appealing when it's a pig tongue and a pig's mouth, Sam realizes. 'Seriously, I'll eat it, Sam. I can't control this body.'

"Why am I not surprised?" Sam says dryly, shutting his laptop and shoving it—and his notebook—underneath the pillow on his own bed. "Same old excuse."

Dean starts to move forward but thinks the better of it, 'cause he'll fall off the bed and Sam sure isn't going to pick him up again. He gets up and moves a little, rolls onto his back and leans his head forward, forelegs resting on his belly, back legs sticking up in the air. 'I want something salty.'

Sam rolls his eyes as he picks up the motel room keys, hearing soft snorting behind him. "Keep it down. The last thing we want is them throwing us out for me bringing a _pig_ into the room."

'Oh, and bring me a beer.'

"You're a pig, moron."

Dean sort of shrugs, wriggles in place. 'So what?'

"I'm gonna bring you _pork rinds_ if you keep this up," Sam says, getting a loud snort in return.

'That's _cold_ ,' Dean says and when Sam's just about to leave, he calls out and says, 'Be a good brother and put the TV on. I can't use the remote. No fingers.'

Yeah, beyond fucked up, just so we're clear.

*

So the thing is, being a pig? Has its ups and downs.

Right now, it's a definite down when Dean tries to lower the volume on Skinemax—sure, normal volume's fine but sometimes you just don't wanna hear cheesy dialogue when you're just trying to get off—and instead manages to switch it over to Lifetime, where one of those chicks from whatever shows Sammy secretly watches is dealing with a life threatening illness or a surprise pregnancy or both. Maybe this weepy chick just found out she's knocked up and she's having a tumor.

No fingers. Freaking _hell_ , man, he can't even jerk off to begin with, let alone change channels. Also, he doesn't even feel, uh, _excited_ , and maybe that's for the best. Oh man, what if he's only attracted to other pigs? Stupid thoughts; that one's gonna leave psychological damage.

Must be some ups to the downs, has to be, some kinda silver lining, something to balance this heap of wrongness, 'specially when Dean manages to fall off the bed with a loud thump, groans inwardly because Sam's just gonna have to stuff it and stop bitching when he'll have to pick him up again.

There's _that_ , too, of being stuck—no, of _having_ —because this ain't switching or anything, he damn well transformed on the toilet—a body that can't do much, that can't like, _move_ for one thing. It's a little scary and a lot weird being so low to the ground and being unable to move – graceful or not, he thinks his body's normally more than decent (he is the handsome brother to the giant, after all) and here, this? This is embarrassing.

And there's another thought, one he doesn't want to acknowledge but it pops up when he's struck with this notion of being stuck _forever_.

A few years down the road, Sam Winchester, demon hunter extraordinaire, and his pet pig. You know, the one that gets in the way constantly because oh, did you hear, that used to be his _brother_.

Dean shudders inwardly and starts pacing, ignoring the two driving urges to eat and sleep. Might as well get used to this for the time being 'cause Sammy's gonna get his ass handed to him if Dean isn't up to helping his brother, curse or not.

And if he eats the package of Twizzlers Sam's left peeking out of his bag on the floor, wrapping and all, well, that's not his fucking fault.

*

The first thing Sam does is disregard anything Dean tells him because just recently he wanted to dive headfirst into a mud hole, and that's _before_ he became a pig, so his great ideas are a little crazier than normal. And Dean's normal is already bent towards insanity. He checks out the local pet store, manages to pick up some food based on a few questions he asked the sales person—which, yeah, sure came out a little weird bursting into the store asking if they had any pig food but uh, desperate times. Desperate measures.

They offer to throw in a harness and leash for half off to which Sam declines out of fear for his own safety (and his items, he doesn't want to know what Dean could do to them _now_ ).

"It says here that pigs are omnivores. A diet with 12% protein and a 'lot of fiber and roughage' which is stuff like greens, fruits, and vegetables," Sam says an hour later, frowns and his eyes go wide when Dean pushes his shoulder, nudging him sideways to try and look at the laptop.

'Screw what it says. I'm not eating hay or any shit like that,' Dean states, his eyes going a little squinty, like he needs little pig spectacles balanced on his snout. At least, even _more_ than usual, because Dean might get grouchy about it, but he does suffer from eyestrain when he's on the computer. Funny thing is, he's got the same kind of long lashes. Weird. 'Why the hell are you looking at that stuff anyway?'

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ignited/pic/0004b728/g15)"It's not _hay_ , Dean. And I'm looking up this stuff to know how to, uh, handle you."

'You sure know how to get a girl all hot and bothered, Sammy.'

"Shut up," Sam replies tolerantly, nudges Dean away with a light brush of his forearm when he resumes typing, Dean lying down next to him. "Just in case this lasts for a while."

Before Dean can respond, Sam adds, "Sometimes these things tend to last for a few weeks or more. Months aren't uncommon. Cases running for years have been known to occur."

' _Years_?' Dean's voice is loud and confused in Sam's head, and Sam can easily conjure up a mental image of his brother's expression on his real face, the tension in his body language transformed and replaced in this animal next to him. 'Oh god, kill me now. I mean it, kill me. No wait, if I'm sent to hog heaven, someone could cook me and _eat me_. Jesus.'

"Yeah, I know," Sam answers, ignores the way his stomach's twisting in knots, that may be thanks to the soft bristle scrape of Dean's fur against the bare skin of his exposed arm near the t-shirt sleeve. "We'll figure it out."


	2. Stirring Up The Dirt

The next morning, body aching thanks to restless dreams and the motel room’s freezing, A/C blasting because of his brother’s weird ass internal temperature—so Dean feels cold on one side, like a _furnace_ on the other, Sam’s warmth pressing up against his back. It’s not all encompassing though, Dean notices in his sleepy haze, cracks an eye open, then two, and—wait, to start off, his vision’s tons better than it was hours ago, and he feels _different_. Like, _normal_ different.

Normal different, normal _normal_ , yeah, because he’s got his arms sticking out in front of him, laid on the bed: two human arms, painfully cramped from sleeping on his side. Dean starts to pat himself, not at _all_ crazy-like, because he’s completely calm and Sam would just make fun of him for it. Sam, in fact, starts murmuring and kisses the back of Dean’s neck like, like it’s all no big deal at all.

This leads to Dean smacking him on the shoulder, regretting that his awkward positioning makes the smack come out more like a bitch slap. “Dude! Get off. I’m _normal_.”

Sam yawns, all loud, his mouth huge and morning breath reeking, could peel paint if needed. “Since when?”

“Hilarious. No, man, I’m not—it’s—” Dean rolls in the bed, gets a good look at himself. All limbs and parts in place. And _hey_ , he’s never been happier to see morning wood in his life. “I’m not a pig anymore.”

“You’ll always be a pig to me,” Sam promises, his body going less slack and more firm when he starts to wake up. And wake up he does, moving on the bed on his bare knees to sit in front of, in-between Dean’s open legs. “You have a nightmare?”

“What?”

“That you were a pig?” Sam explains, his brow furrows. He snakes his hands down the length of Dean’s thighs, his legs, starts to put Dean’s legs up over his shoulders. “Have you been drinking?”

“Enough with the crazy talk, I’m _me_ again, and hate to say this, not in the— fuck, Sam!”

Fucking bastard. Leaning forward, real slow, and Dean’s legs are over his shoulders and Sam’s rearing to go, fingertips light, pressing, but it’s _too_ quick, and Dean says, clears his throat so it doesn’t come out like he’s going through puberty, “Sam, I’m not—I don’t wanna. Get _off_.”

“Oh, fine,” Sam says, pouts—what? Where did _that_ come from? “You’re of no use to me. Looks like they’re getting a side of Winchester tonight.”

Dean doesn’t get the chance to form the words, _what the fuck?_ when Sam’s gone, and in his place there’s a whole ceiling of knives slowly coming down like that scene in _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ , except knives instead of spikes, he’s not Indy and he ain’t wearing a fedora. He can smell garlic and spices, feels heat and steam rise around him, and can’t see much other than the knives. He’s also a pig again, legs tied together, unable to move.

‘This isn’t good,’ Dean says to no one, tries to wriggle and move on the stone floor, just a little towards the right, where the open door is, but that looks like it’s closing too.

“Dean!”

There’s a crazed voice in the back of his mind, laughing like a jackass, _it figures_ —Sam’s at the other end of the room wearing lipstick, girlie pajamas, and a silk robe, screaming about not wanting to press the button because of all the garlic.

‘I’m gonna die because you’re afraid of fucking garlic!’

“At least you’ll taste good?” Sam volunteers, Valley-girl lilting the end of his sentence, then starts shrieking and sticking his hand in a large hole right in the wall.

Dean wakes up.

Screaming.

Sam throws an arm over Dean’s shaking side, curses when Dean kicks him by accident in his half-awake surprised stupor—but, it’s Sam, so he just starts whispering words to relieve Dean, strokes his side. “It’s me! It’s me, Dean. You had a nightmare.”

Dean groans, but his mouth doesn’t do it; voice does inwardly, still a pig. Wonderful. ‘Damn it. Sam?’

“Yeah?”

‘Any non-creepy reason why you decided to sleep with me?’

“Um.”

Dean picks that unfortunate moment to wriggle, rump too close to the lower part of Sam, brushing up against...god, Sam’s a _freak_. ‘Dude. What the hell is _that_?’

“I think you know what this is, Dean,” Sam manages to say even though he must be horrified himself considering how it stammers out.

‘Great, I’m a pig and you’re a sicko that gets off on pigs. Speaking of, get _off_ of me. Take your boner to the bathroom and rub it out or whatever, freak.’

Sam half rolls, half gets up off the bed and he leans, bunching up the sheets right in front of his boxers, his hair all messy like it’s representing how awkward and oh fucking _hell_ wrong this situation is. “You can’t, like, read my thoughts, can you?”

‘No. I just talk in my head and somehow you can hear me talking in yours. So, like, _listen_ ,’ Dean says, tries to nod but it’s kind of hard to do it in his position and you know, when he doesn’t exactly have a neck. And thank god Sam’s already darting into the bathroom, Dean adding, ‘Whatever happens in there is between your dick and whatever’s goin’ on in that big weird ass head of yours!’

  


  
*  


“This is embarrassing.”

‘You’re telling _me_.’

“Stop squirming!”

‘I can’t help it, Sam, I’m guessing pigs hate being carried,’ Dean says, and wriggles in Sam’s grasp, less than before because Sam’s wrapped Dean’s leather jacket around him, hiding him mostly from view save for his bristly head sticking out and the tips of his legs poking out underneath. He’s panting and struggling to get free, and Sam’s muttering up a storm, teeth grit and his eyes narrow.

He could’ve let Dean walk, but they’re in the near empty motel parking lot, mid-morning, already too hot, hazy heat wave, few people walking down the sidewalk across the street. The last thing they need are bystanders who could let the motel owners know about illegal farm animals and the people who drag around illegal farm animals (and that conjures up a whole series of images Sam doesn’t want to think about).

“I’m your _brother_ , I’m _not_ gonna hurt you, Dean,” Sam whispers harshly, gets in view of the Impala. “Now, cut it out.”

Dean punctuates his squirming with a loud snort. ‘I’m _trying_ , dumbass. Dude, could you move any slower?’

“I’d move faster if you weren’t so fucking _heavy_.”

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Dean snaps, wriggles harder. ‘Put me the fuck down so I can tear your fucking balls off.’

“Yeah, and get me arrested for illegal possession of the whiniest pig ever. Calm down. Look. We’re here,” Sam says, bending down to angle himself near the back door of the Impala’s left side.

‘Whoa. Whoa, you’re not putting me in the backseat!’ Dean says as Sam lowers his leather-wrapped, squirming bundle onto the backseat. Sam sighs with relief when the weight’s lifted. ‘This isn’t fair! I can’t see anything back here.’

“You’re not gonna fit in the front, Dean,” Sam says, and he’s pulling the seat back, leaning and suddenly inches away from Dean’s snout. “And stay in the coat or you’ll mess up the upholstery.”

‘I’m clean,’ Dean protests, almost pouting, sitting back on his haunches on the leather jacket. Sam doesn’t even bother responding because Dean knows his hooves certainly aren’t clean, and besides, they’ll poke at the leather. As for the front seat, it isn’t so much a question of size as it is of balance because at least dogs have that, but a pig riding shotgun would lead to questions and he’d probably smash his snout right on the dashboard if the car stops abruptly.

Sam starts the car and holds onto the empty passenger seat back, glances at Dean as he looks out the back window to pull out of the parking space.

“Look, the faster we figure out what’s wrong, the faster you can change back, and the faster we can fuck, because,” Sam pauses, knowing Dean’s about to hate the next three words that are about to come out, but screw it, Dean’s a pig and Sam’s lost his damn mind, “I love you, man, but there are just some taboos I’m not willing to break.”

Everything’s quiet for a few seconds and Dean seems to drift for that time, looking around passively before he stares at Sam, his eyes a little wide. ‘I can’t believe you said that.’

Sad thing is, Dean probably means the _I love you_ and not the whole, you know, consideration of fucking Dean while he’s wearing the body of an animal.

“Yeah, well.” Sam shrugs, looking left and right before chancing and running a red light through an empty intersection. He’s really hoping Dean doesn’t talk in his head any more, because his head’s a fucked up place, of course, and he shouldn’t go blurting out stupid things like that lest Dean latch on and insult him as he inevitably will.

‘I can’t believe you’re fucking _horny_ ,’ Dean continues as though explaining his comment. He sniffs the air and Sam remembers another fact gleaned off Google: pigs having a great sense of smell. ‘You _freak_.’

“ _You_ smell like _bacon_.”

‘Fuck you,’ Dean snaps, pulls himself over to look at the passenger side window in the backseat. He leaves snout-marks all over the glass but seems to be in denial that he’s just messed up his precious car. ‘Hey, if you pull the car over, we can try—’

“Jesus Christ, _no_ ,” Sam groans, scrunches his face and tries to think of anything that’ll kill his hard-on which, come to think of it, is kind of easy considering his brother, the pig, is suggesting the idea of letting him hump Sam’s leg or _something_ , oh _god_ , why did that thought pop into his head?—

‘Fine. But at least do me the favor and get yourself off already, ‘cause I ain’t sitting here and smelling that you’ve got a hell of a hard-on for the whole trip. Just remember, if you’re gonna get off, do it in the passenger side. The driver’s side is a sacred place whether or not my ass—human or pig—is in it.’

  


  
*  


Dean sits back on his jacket, feels awkward and miserable, for once it not being that he’s a pig, but he’s in the backseat, like he’s five years old again and holding onto his baby brother as Dad zooms away, thinking, _One day I’m gonna be in the front seat._ That’s when he was human though, not this. ‘Sam—’

“There’s some containers of food under the passenger seat in the back, I’ll get you them at the next light, Dean.”

‘No, um. I gotta take a leak.’

“Oh. Uh. Okay.”

He pulls over and he doesn’t say a word, looks up at the trees as he lifts Dean up for a few seconds then places him down on the ground, Dean darting off into the woodland area nearby. Taking a piss was a whole new experience; one associated now with sharp smells and dirt underfoot, the bushes and trees outside the ‘Vacancy’ motel sign replaced today with a stretch of empty woodland road, bordered by thick tree growth.

Dean doesn’t like the fact that he can’t reach his dick, but he still sees enough anyway to come back all smug, lets his tail wag all it wants when Sam pulls the car door open to put him inside again.

  


  
*  


They decide to check out a local farm for answers, considering that the spirit they’d been after was based in local farm folklore—maybe it had something to do with animal husbandry, Sam said, and Dean still managed to give him a disgusted look, pig face or not. Thing is, Sam decides to investigate alone, to which Dean calls bullshit and jumps and darts out of the Impala when Sam gets the door open. He’s surprisingly fast for a pig, but that’s another thing Sam read, and this will spell out something bad eventually.

Dean settles for trotting after Sam, snorting and grumbling all the while, complaining whenever Sam moves too fast or too slow. He won’t admit it but it seems like pigs—at least, his breed—don’t have a good sense of vision, so Sam carries a baggie of snacks (treats, if he’s being less kind) in his jacket pocket, shakes it with a hand whenever Dean stalls.

Twenty minutes of this, going out to the farm and getting no helpful answers from the locals, and Sam waves goodbye to the farmer as the older man unloads a few bales of hay off a pick-up truck with some members of his family. A little way down the road, there’s Dean, encircled by a number of young women, probably making a pit stop before they check out the apple patch nearby. Dean lies on his back, one of the girls kneeling and rubbing his belly. His back right leg kicks and twitches repeatedly, back and forth, like a dog, mouth open and panting.

Sam stands near the women, another girl leaning down with her hands on her knees. She looks up, squinting in the sunlight, nods at Sam. “Is he from that farm over there?”

“No. He’s mine, though he seems to think different,” Sam says, Dean lifting his head to look up at him.

“Maybe you should think of branding him,” the girl tells him.

Dean doesn’t talk or anything, because at this point they’re not sure if only Sam can hear him, or everyone else can, too. But he snorts, though, and his features seem to _grin_ at the girl rubbing his belly.

The only girl who isn’t cooing over Dean is holding her jacket in front of her thighs, wearing a backpack, her hair in pigtails. “I think your pig needs to go on a diet before they mistake him for food,” she says, jerks a thumb over her shoulder at the farm.

“He should, shouldn’t he?” Sam asks, rubs his chin and covers his mouth partially, covers up the laugh that’s trying to break free. Dean wriggles to get to his feet, trotting towards Sam’s legs. “He’s like an annoying older brother who won’t listen to those who know better.”

Sam reckons getting head butted in the legs is totally worth it.

  


  
*  


Thing is, they’re up shit’s creek without a paddle when it’s ten days and nothing’s working. Incantations and rituals cooked up from Dad’s journal, trying to be vague and get info from contacts Dean doesn’t want knowing the nature of his change. The spirit being the cause proved to be a definite bust. Ten freaking _days_ , and if it isn’t bad enough—getting a license, and a _leash_ , that doesn’t go over well, but they’re not about to talk about _that_ —Dean hasn’t had sex for one week and three days.

Ten _days_. Since he popped his cherry, this is one of his longest dry spells ever. (Yeah, the weeks after Dad’s death don’t count, that’s another time, all right? He wasn’t looking to get laid and that’s what count, Dean’s looking to get laid _now_ , only problem is that he’s still attracted to the human species and uh, he’s currently without a human body.)

He’s been living like a goddamned monk and Sam’s starting to freak out.

Okay, so, maybe not freak out as to finding a lead—he’s still geek boy, burning up a storm on that laptop and spending hours in the local library—but freaking out at Dean, and it’s not like Dean’s _trying_ to freak Sam out, but he can’t fucking help it, and he’s got a list of reasons to be cranky.

See, Dean, the man, can get along just fine with the few constants in his life: his brother, his car, the open road, and hunting. Throw in some food, the occasional horror movie, a costume or two for a disguise (fine, he might’ve teased Sam at first, but his freak factor digs dressing up, okay?), sex, waitresses, food, more sex, his brother and more sex, and he’s a happy man. Dean the pig, on the other hand, has this list cut down and revised, so when he isn’t eating or sleeping, and when he isn’t arguing with Sam about the car or a hunt or that he hasn’t eaten Sam’s disappearing socks, he’s got fuck all to do when Sam decides to lock him into the motel room like a freaking _kid_. Like he’s going to be able to freakin’ open the door anyway, it’s not like he has hands.

And did he mention the lack of sex? One week and three _days_ , no sex.

There’s also the fact that, currently, Sam’s yelling at Dean for stripping the motel wallpaper and rooting up the small kitchenette linoleum, and Dean cranes his head as far as he’s able while on all fours, and he still can’t quite see Sam’s face, vision dark, too far away and too high to distinguish.

Dean stays quiet for a minute, his body restless and twitchy, moving a little in place.

“Dean? Are you even listening to me?”

‘Sam,’ Dean starts, and can’t hide the weariness in his voice, notices the tension and shift in the air when Sam’s body goes a little rigid, ‘Remind me if I ever get my own body back, to smack you upside the head.’

“ _When_ you get it back—”

‘I think I’m slipping, man,’ Dean interrupts, and normally he wouldn’t bring this kind of stuff up with Sam only he’s bored and hungry, and feels like that all the _time_ now, and it’s beginning to piss him off. No, screw beginning, it _is_ pissing him off, cramped up in this hotel room he can barely move around in, queen-sized beds in the way.

Even if he’d get the chance to go out, Sam insists on putting the leash on him, and if there’s one thing Dean won’t do, is wear a leash and get dragged around by his baby brother. Sometimes Sam’s taken him outside and lets him run around in a field a few blocks down from the motel they’re staying in, but it doesn’t last long because the appeal wears off fast and as much as this body takes to doing pig things, it’s not like he’s ‘grazing’ or whatever it’s called.

Grass is still _grass_ and doesn’t compare to having a good old hamburger. God, what he wouldn’t kill for a good burger, but he can’t trust Sam to get it for him, since, genius that he is, he’d ordered Dean’s old standby, a double _bacon_ cheeseburger last time.

Running too, running’s strange and awkward, a little nerve-wracking trying to peer through long grass to find his brother sitting on the Impala or leaning on an old fence post, checking his phone messages or reading the local paper.

Bad enough he can’t freaking get used to this body—it’s hell mastering this strange center of gravity, he’s so low to the ground and awkward and Sam’s like a _giant_ —it’s like being in a prison within another prison.

This prison’s getting harder to control—sure, it’s _his_ body, not like possession or anything, it’s all transformed, shrunk down and changed into this _thing_ but animal instincts and frustration combine to make his hold onto reality less and less, makes him do these kind of animal things more and more.

And, you know, _no sex_.

“What do you mean ‘slipping?’” Sam asks, sitting on the edge of his bed slowly, elbows resting on his knees. He hunches forward, still too tall for Dean, who’s standing in front of Sam’s long legs.

Dean sighs and sits down, turns his head away so he won’t have to look at Sam. Looks at anything in eyesight, besides his brother. ‘Like I can’t control myself. But I’m trying, and it’s _hard_ , all right? Gimme a break.’

Sam frowns, bites his lip, his mouth all tense like he wants to burst out and tell Dean off, and he _will_ , it’s in his nature, only thank god he doesn’t stand up because Dean’s not sure he can take the old ‘listen to me because I am the towering giant and I know all’ routine right now. He leans an arm on his knee, the other hand on his hip when Dean moves away, starts nosing through the duffel bags thrown on the floor to keep himself occupied. “When were you gonna tell me, Dean?”

‘Uh, never mind,’ Dean answers, hears the crinkle-crunch of plastic wrapping and tries to paw at the side pocket of his duffel bag. Changing the subject—good, _good_ , focus, concentrate on anything else—he says accusingly, ‘That’s a freaking candy bar. You hidin’ it from me?’

Roll of his eyes and Sam’s already there, trying to pull the duffel bag away despite Dean biting one end and pulling it in the other direction. They pull and argue for a few moments, Sam’s words interrupting Dean’s snorts and squeals, Sam all, “I can’t believe I’m having a fight with a _pig_ , let _go_ ,” and Dean’s saying, ‘I’m not a _pig_ , idiot, let go, it’s _my_ goddamn bag!’

The bag falls from Sam’s grasp, Dean moving out of the way as the contents spill out. Jeans, t-shirts, a belt, his _boots_ , man, he misses this stuff, ‘cause the novelty of walking around naked pretty much wears off the first day. Oh, and the Ray-Bans. Those are nice.

Sam kicks the sunglasses out of his way as he moves towards the table, waves his hands up in the air. “I give up.”

‘Dude, watch out, I like those,’ Dean warns, trots over to nudge the glasses right side up with his front leg. ‘Stupid arm. Uh, leg.’

Sam’s leafing through a stack of papers when he looks down at Dean, wait, past him, staring hard right square on the glasses. “...Dean, when did you get those again?”

‘About three weeks ago, at that old department store,’ Dean answers, cranes his head to look up. Freaking _giant_.

“And when did you start showing signs of changing?”

‘Like three weeks ag—Oh, _fuck_ , FUCK!’ Dean shouts, body squeals when he kicks the sunglasses away. ‘Shit. _Shit_.’

It’s not like he intends to, but he reckons he’s letting a curse word or two slip out between grunts and snorts, tries to make his mouth form actual _words_. You can only get so far cursing up a storm in your head when your brother’s already on his laptop, looking up addresses.

  


  
*  


‘Yeah, well, looks like I’m not shuttin’ up. Deal,’ Dean says, and here we are, with Sam leaning against the doorframe, hiding a grin, just head butted by his pig brother, nighttime and hunting.

“Dude, cut it out, get _behind_ me,” Sam whispers, harsh, feels a soft rub up against his calf, a nudge. Dean’s snout keeps poking his legs, stays close, constant grunts and snorts let Sam know he’s there when he isn’t bumping right into him. Dean says it’s to protect his ass; Sam says Dean should’ve stayed in the car. But Dean won’t listen to reason, or anything like that, not when it’s seventy degrees out on a summer night and there’s a pool of mud right on the property outside. Lock him in the car and he’ll find a way to get out, so he’s better off following Sam rather than giving into the strong urge to lie in the mud when his brother could be “fighting zombies” for all he knows.

There’s also the fact that if Sam’s research is correct and this _is_ the residence belonging to the owners of the now closed and decrepit department store, then he might need Dean present for whatever reversal spell Sam’s gonna force these people to give him. Because Sam’s pissed and when he’s working a mood, he can damn well try and make most anything go his way.

‘It’s too dark. You should’ve brought a flashlight,’ Dean murmurs, looking up left and right as they walk.

It isn’t that dark though, another sign of the temporary differences between them. The house looks like the standard abandoned creepy love shack of doom, floral prints and moldy old pillows collecting dust, freaky-ass stuffed deer heads mounted on walls and Sam’s glad Dean can’t see that well—and really, he doesn’t even want to check—to look up and see if there are any heads of a porcine nature. Sam wouldn’t be surprised, considering that as they move through the house, it gets more exotic, and there’s strange shaped heads too, almost human… yeah, freaky-ass standard love shack. Love shack, because without that with the right mix of doilies and curtains, all gaps and holes, it’s like a bordello. Of evil. And of taxidermy.

Point is, the lights are off and nobody’s home, but judging by the general creepy vibe, Sam’s thinking they’re still around.

Dean bumps into Sam again, whispers, ‘Sorry!’

Too much talking, but Sam’s still happy that if Dean’s following, at least he didn’t get his wish to carry a weapon. Sam doesn’t know how _that_ would work—Dean’s body is already a weapon enough as it is, slightly narrow but stout and sturdy, head butting and long legs kicking—and Sam didn’t bother to listen to Dean’s laundry list of needed supplies which included a lot of rope and an axe.

‘So let me get this straight,’ Dean’s saying, his voice low like he’s mindful of others, when it’s just Sam with a gun in one hand, a lightly packed duffel on the other arm, ‘What kind of weirdoes have a going out of business sale and think, ‘hey, nice time to sell some transmogrifying junk. I know, let’s put these freaking _magic pig sunglasses_ on sale?’’

Sam shakes his head, lifts his eyebrows and his mouth pulls into a ‘shh.’ They’re at a doorway down a long corridor behind the staircase to the second floor, a small glow of gold outlining the doorframe. Dean shuts up, and for once his transformed body agrees with him, no snorting whatsoever. Sam nods once, and Dean does too (and that will never stop being weird, ever), before Sam kicks the door open, aiming his gun.

It’s a small little living room, fireplace, rows and rows of books, with two old ladies and an old man playing cards around a fold-up table. _Cards_. But they all look like your standard seniors—if you can come up with a classification system anyway—Wal-Mart clothing, the closest old woman with faded blonde hair has a cane, the other’s got glasses with a silver chain. The man is bald and wearing a sweater with patches on the elbows, and to top it all off, they’re drinking _lemonade_.

Sam’s not the type of person to yell ‘freeze!’ or ‘stop!’ —it’s Dean who barks commands usually, two steps in front, Sam behind and over his shoulder—though, he could say something, but the scene’s so normal and homey he’s not sure if he should interrupt or ask for a complimentary cookie.

Dean on the other hand, darts forward in front of Sam, long legs spread a little wide, squeals with anger, voice shouting, ‘Which one of you assholes did this to _me_?!’

_Thanks, Dean_ , is also not something one would say to a pig in front of sane company—scratch that, in front of _people_ anyway—and if others can hear Dean’s voice, looks like this is how they find out. Sam just lifts his gun and says, “I know about your transmogrifying merchandise. It’s over.”

It isn’t Shakespeare, and the message may have gotten muddled what with the two old ladies smiling at them, the nearest woman leaning down and clapping her hands in amusement.

“Oh, isn’t he just so _cute_!” says the nearest, the blonde, her lips real red, wearing a cardigan dressed up with polka dots. “Look at him, Elsa! Look at his little _tail_!”

“Let me see!” Elsa says, and moves her finger in a circular motion, Dean sliding across the paisley patterned carpet with a moan of ‘Sam!’ as an accompaniment. He slides right in front of her legs like an invisible leash pulls him by the neck; she pushes back the glasses on her nose to lean down and stroke Dean’s short, sandy brown coat. “He’s a looker, this one. I can feel it in his bones. Just itching, all shrunk down and contained. Poor baby.”

‘ _Sam_ ,’ Dean repeats, just as Blondie leans over and begins to stroke his tail, ‘Kill me _now_ , damn it.’

Sam cocks the gun, taking a few steps forward, jaw set. “You’re gonna reverse the spell and you’re gonna do it _now_.”

“Now hold on a second, son,” the old man pipes up, rubs a hand over his bald head after he places his hand of cards on the table. He stands up just as Elsa and Blondie are twittering over Dean, the petting and talking sending Dean into a state of confusion or just plain gratification; his tail’s kind of wagging slow, left and right. Sam keeps the gun aimed at the old man, follows his movements, the shadows shift on the floor as the man moves in front of the fireplace, lifts up a dusty old ledger from the mantle. “What type of item was it?”

“What?” Sam straightens a little, lowers the gun an inch or two, his brow furrowing. “Uh—it’s a, it’s a pair of sunglasses?”

Yeah, he’s real good with this, letting his guard down a little. But it’s old people playing _cards_ and Dean’s getting his belly rubbed, his voice a moan interspersed with a complaint or two, in and out like he’s hypnotized.

“Ah, yes. Black. Ray-Bans, right?” he asks, trails a finger down a list in the ledger, closing it shut with one hand. “Hoo, boy, those used to be awfully popular. The kids got a kick out of those,” the old man says, chuckles, making the freaky tableau of after-school visit to the senior home meets magic rituals complete. “Don’t worry, boy, it’s just a gag.”

Sam and Dean both say, _What?_ , and Dean tries to wave the women away with a foreleg, not very good at it when he needs the leg for balance. Dean looks over to Sam, but Sam sets his sights on… the evil old senior citizen, holding the gun with both hands now, his eyes narrowing, doesn’t care if his whole body language screams pissed off.

“What do you mean, a _gag_?”

“Oh, the sunglasses? Those old things,” says Blondie, sitting straight in her chair, sips her tea daintily, all smiles. “It’s a beholder instrument.”

‘A _what?_ ‘ Dean asks, having managed to tear himself out of the invisible grip and now he’s right near Sam’s leg, his side rubbing against Sam’s left calf.

Elsa starts to place the discarded cards in the deck, pushing a strand of loose hair back into the grey bun hanging low near the nape of her neck. “It’s like a wishing mirror—you stare into it and whatever you see yourself as, you become—only it’s a little joke of a toy so the results are different.”

She stops grabbing cards, cards floating up and towards the deck instead while she crosses her arms in front of her, leaning on the table instead. “Whoever wears the sunglasses is made to slowly become what their significant other—that’s to say, whoever’s closest to the person, spouse, true love, you know, all that lovey dovey stuff—thinks of them upon looking at them. Social class, animal, personality, whatever. It’s good for parties.”

“Like the telescope that gives you a black eye,” the old man pops in helpfully.

Dean sits back on his haunches and looks all the way up at Sam. There’s a few beats that pass, an uncomfortable silence as Sam looks down at him, right in the eyes, and they’re not talking about this, no, but it’s just _hanging_ —‘true love’ and that’s… uh. Just. _Uh_.

Somehow, for a moment Dean’s himself, in Sam’s mind, human, that slight tension to Dean’s jaw, eyes lowered, things they don’t talk about but are always _there_ in the background. Then, he blinks, and Dean’s still a pig, didn’t change, snorts and grumbles, moves like he’ll speak.

But Sam cuts him off, the gun lowered now, clears his throat as he scratches the back of his neck.

“We were in the restaurant—”

‘Sam...’

“And you were eating all that _food_ , your freaking table manners were non-existent—”

‘ _Sam_.’

“…You gave me that grin and I looked at you…” Sam trails off. “I thought you were acting like a pig.”

‘Oh, screw killing me, I’m gonna kill _you_.’

  


  
*  


Before they vanish, a soft pop and colored smoke, way too _Wizard of Oz_ if you’re asking him, the trio tell the boys that the spell should wear off in a few days time, having run long due to the ‘trick’ being past the expiration date, which is just a little notch on the post of how fucking weird Dean’s life has become, because if it isn’t the usual ghosts, goblins, and demons, now there’s expiration dates like it’s a dairy product.

Or meat product, like the time Dean said, plainly, days ago, _I’m never eating bacon again_. To which Sam responded with, _“I give it three days.” ‘Hey!’ “Two.” ‘You should be ashamed, Sammy, having no faith in your brother.’ “My brother the pig.” ‘Laugh it up, fuzzball.’ “Oh, I am, **Ham** Solo.”_

This means even _more_ motel time, Sam thinking it wouldn’t be good for Dean to suddenly change back in the middle of a crowded area. Like a bar, doing shots, “that’s what got you into this mess in the first place.”

‘No, _you_ got me like this,’ Dean responds, pacing back and forth on his bed before he takes a few steps back and jumps to the floor with a loud thump. Dean winces inwardly, not quite used to the shock coursing through his legs, short, but exceptionally long for a pig (Sam pointing out, Dean saying, _shut the fuck up, Sasquatch_ ). ‘I’m not lettin’ you off the hook for this for the next _decade_. No, make that millennium. I’ll find a way to come back to life and haunt your ass forever.’

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ignited/pic/0004cxd7/g15)“Shut _up_ ,” Sam instructs, slipping on his jacket. “Come on. I thought we could go out today.”

It’s not like he says, straight out, _go out to that mud hole_ , what with Dean refusing to acknowledge certain things that come along with being a pig but ever since Sam started researching these facts—and ever since Dean gets so freaking tired and sleepy cooped up all day—Sam figures that it’d do him good. Pigs don’t have any sweat glands so they try and roll around in something wet to keep themselves cool. More often than not, they don’t have access to water, so it’s mud.

See. Even _Dean_ remembers that from third grade, uh, somethingorother class, and now, he gets that pigs get a bad rap. Except it’s not like he thought he’d actually _experience_ this when back then the majority of his ambitions were taken up by growing up to be just like his dad and making sure Sammy was always safe.

When he slips into the mud, it’s like the friggin’ Calgon commercial (and Dean will never tell Sam about how he remembers these things, just like Sam won’t talk about how kinky he really is, man, the kid _bites_ )— _Calgon, take me away_. Replace bathtub soap with mud and you have one satisfied Dean Winchester, too blissed out to bother yelling at Sam who’s pretending to check his voicemail and that he’s not taking a photo with his phone. Dick.

Sam lets him lounge—oh, he is _owning_ the lounging thing—for an hour before he calls out for them to go back. Looks like rain, clouds heavy, sky overcast. Everything smells sharp to him, fresh cut, rocks, insects, scents easy to distinguish and cluttering up his brain at the same time. Overall, the main scent is _Sam_ , aftershave and his namby-pamby girlie shampoo that Dean smells when he darts after Sam and past him into the room when they reach their motel room.

“Wait a minute!” Sam calls out. Dean nearly crashes face-first into the ground, hesitating too quick when Sam points in the direction of the bathroom. “You’re getting mud all over the carpet. Go take a bath.”

  


  
*  


He’s grumbling the whole time when Sam takes his jacket off, rolls up his sleeves and picks Dean up with a whuff of exhaled air in the bathroom. Takes a few steps forward and lowers him into the tub, says, “Man, you really _do_ need a bath.” Dean _almost_ bites him when Sam stretches an arm towards the faucet and turns the water on. The water’s hot, steaming, cooled only a little by a quick swipe of Sam’s hand at the faucet knob, Dean nudging him away with his head.

‘I can take it.’

“Any hotter and you’ll start to cook.”

‘You’re a bitch,’ Dean declares, steps away from Sam’s lingering hand. ‘Try giving me a bath and I’ll pee all over your stuff.’

“Dude! That’s disgusting.” Sam makes a face, going to sit on the closed toilet seat, legs spread apart as he hunches forward near the tub. Dean almost gives him a shrug, like saying, _Pig, man, what do you expect?_ ; it comes off more like a full body shake. He sits down, legs splayed out, tapping the rising water with his forelegs.

They just sit there for a while, Sam making sure the water level doesn’t get too high, Dean starts relating a tale or two from one of his Sam-less era days, hunting with Dad, hunting alone. It’s when Sam starts frowning at the water that he says, “Uh. I think you’re shedding.”

‘What?’

“You’re losing your hair. Look.”

Dean cranes his head down and stares at the sandy brown bristles floating in the water. ‘What the fuck?’

Except, here? Dean’s soft snorting and grunting start getting louder and longer, deeper, like forming _words_ , Sam swears he can hear ‘fuck’ and his name—his name, repeated, when there’s a bright flash of light, a scent of something exotic, perfume, or _something_.

Then it’s like the Discovery Channel on crack, fast-forward, as Dean just sort of _grows_ , his body twists and melts, shifts upwards, the sound of flesh and bone ringing sharp against bathroom tiles. Within three minutes he’s just sitting in the bathtub, naked and human, his knees up and his hands gripping the tub edge and bathroom wall railing.

“Dean!” Sam nearly cracks his knees jumping down and positioning himself near the bathtub edge, feeling frantic and relieved, and _giddy_ , too. It’s been two weeks without this, having his brother _here_ but not himself, too low and too different. There’s the soft dusting of freckles on Dean’s shoulders, barely noticeable if it wasn’t for the fluorescent lighting and the way Dean’s _shaking_ , running his hands over his arms and legs. He cups his balls and fists his dick, yeah, Sam’s missed _that_ , sure, Dean crowing, “I’m back! I’m _back_. It’s all back!”

Dean’s wide eyes narrow and Dean grabs Sam’s shoulders, angles himself to try a shitty job of throttling Sam. “I’m gonna _kill you_ , you dumbass!”

“Hey! Hey, get off of me!”

Sure, Sam gets one too many limbs bruised when he has a naked brother trying to choke him, flailing and unused to his body, but it’s worth it just to bat his hands away and hug him, girly or not, it doesn’t matter, it’s _Dean_.

“Get off _me_!” Dean yells, pushing unsuccessfully at Sam’s hands, arms. “You’re an asshole.”

Sam pulls his head back after he breathes against Dean’s ear, traces a messy kiss across Dean’s cheek to his mouth. Gets a tongue past Dean’s lips, taste of Dean, wet and clean Dean, but Dean nevertheless. “Shut the hell up, Dean.”

“Oh, _now_ you want me,” Dean says, looks the other way—anywhere else—when Sam starts to help him stand up, weak-kneed and wobbly. “Picky bitch.”

“Do you seriously _want_ me to go back and _ask_ them for another pair of glasses?”

“Do you seriously _want_ my foot up your ass?” Dean retorts, then looks down at himself. Back to normal, all of it, and he starts to roll his ankle, moving his right foot in a circle. “Ha! _Feet_.”

“Idiot. Come on.”

“Dude,” Dean says, flashing the smile that Sam’s missed so, okay, he’s missed it a _lot_ , “You’re a total pigfucker. Kinky freak bastard.”

Sam goes to say something but Dean stops him, fisting Sam’s hair, bringing him to his mouth, not letting Sam go, long enough that they’re just breathing through their noses and Sam’s pushed him up against the threshold.

Sam’s dropped to his knees and Dean exhales sweetly, manages a rough “Good thing I’m not into prudes” comment when Sam’s swallowing him, careful to let his teeth scrape just the topside on the first deep stroke.

And he glances up at Dean, lets his eyes trace up the smooth, lean muscles of Dean’s belly, the tan column of his throat when his head lolls back, hips bucking up into Sam’s mouth, the slight stubble on his neck, jaw, cheeks. Sam’s taking inventory with every lick along the underside of Dean’s cock. The green eyes again, and the broad shoulders, too, and the lack of fur and _Dean_ , back to normal. Fingers running through Sam’s hair, for balance for _this_ , and balance in general, wobbling like he isn’t quite used to standing, makes these little soft noises deep in the back of his throat like he isn’t used to talking either.

It’s quiet during and if Dean attempts to _oink_ when he comes in Sam’s mouth, only managing a strangled _fuck, Sammy_ , well, Sam’s just going to ignore that for the time being.

Later, when they’re on Dean’s bed properly, and when they aren’t tripping over junk and discarded food and wrappers (that Dean didn’t eat), he settles with his back against the pillows, grinning. And Sam’s missed that.

“I’m, uh,” Sam starts, clears his throat, tries to sit up a little, but not too much, not as high up as Dean, but just as worn out, in a good way. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “That you think I’m a pig?”

Sam opens his mouth to speak but Dean cuts him off, scowling. “Dude, it’s fine. Yeah, I get a little messy and all, but you couldn’t have known.”

Dean shrugs, and he looks like _he’s_ missed being able to do that. “Me, I’m thinking the weirdest thing in all this is the fact that you were totally _hot_ for my pig ass. That’s cute, Sammy. Cute and disturbing, but well, what can you expect, comin’ from you.”

He gives a friendly smack to Sam’s bare thigh, scratches his belly as he slinks down in place a little, missing Sam’s withering look in response.

“Dean,” Sam says, looks down at his legs and Dean’s, sprawling, sweat and tangled up sheets, “You do realize that in order for the spell to work both of us have to be like. Uh. According to the witch, like—significant others. She, uh, I think she might’ve said ‘true love’ too but um… I don’t know about _that_.”

“Oh.” Dean frowns, licks his lips, slight crease in his brow. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” Sam responds, shakes and pushes the hair out of his eyes, clears his throat. They’re quiet for a moment or two, the A/C softly rumbling in the background, streak of car noises outside.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna watch some sports?”

Sam’s hitting his elbow on the bedside table grabbing for the remote, just as Dean states, “So long as you’re the wife.”

And they never speak of it again.

Until the next time this happens, anyway.

  
_end_


End file.
